


John's Room

by river1983



Series: Tumblr Collections [6]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AS HE ALWAYS HAS, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluff, Fluffy, John Having A Room, M/M, POV Sherlock Holmes, Prompt Fic, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock's Mind Palace, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Tumblr Prompt, anyway, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-16
Updated: 2019-08-16
Packaged: 2020-09-02 12:09:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20275690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/river1983/pseuds/river1983
Summary: Sherlock entering John's room of his mind palace.





	John's Room

It was a quiet evening in London, at 221b Baker Street. John was asleep in their room, but Sherlock was up, staring outside the window onto the streets, holding his violin by the neck.

He set the instrument down, then calmly walked to his chair and sat down. He breathed in deeply, and shut his eyes, his hands resting on the arms of the chair. He entered his mind palace.

–

If anything about Sherlock was neat and orderly, it would be his Mind Palace. If he was high or in the middle of a riveting case, his mind palace would be chaotic–doors flying open, memory films playing, Moriarty screaming from his cell. But in times like these, sitting quietly in the middle of the night, his mind palace crawled back into place. Every book in order, every memory carefully nestled in their respective rooms, Moriarty quiet in his cage. 

Everything was right where it needed to be. Sherlock had a wing, corridor, and room for everything. With all the knowledge in his mind, it would be such a waste for something actually important to get lost in the depths of his head.

Some nights Sherlock just walked through the halls, entering rooms and looking through memories, his backfiles. It was the only pastime besides playing the violin that he enjoyed. Each room meant something now, whether it be related to his work, his enemies, or his friends.

But there was one room, one room in his Palace that will always mean something to Sherlock, one room that has never had anything deleted from it, one room where_ everything_ meant something, told him something–from the bindings on the books to the very structure of the space.

John’s room.

It wasn’t even John’s_ room_, it was John’s_ wing_. One room wouldn’t be enough to fully encompass all the John Hamish Watson is, all John is to_ Sherlock_.

He had a room for John’s past, he had a room for John’s physicality, his personality, his ex-girlfriends, his favorite things, his blog, even a room for Rosie. Anything he has ever seen John doing, interacting with, or just_ being_ Sherlock has stored away in his brain because it was precious. There is_ no one_ like John Hamish Watson.

One room of John’s that Sherlock has yet to be able to go into in moments like these was_ Sherlock and John_. 

Everything that has ever happened involving their relationship, platonic and romantic, was in that room. And Sherlock just…_couldn’t_. He could still hardly believe John had stayed this long.

But he would go in today.

He stood directly in front of the room, staring at the large, wooden doors with gold emblems, “Sherlock and John” written in calligraphy on top of the doors. 

Sherlock took the handle.

He opened the door.

–

It was_ full._ Bookshelves, papers, films, even records flooded the room. Sherlock breathed it all in, held on to it like he held on to Redbeard. Even after so many years with John, Sherlock could hardly believe all the data–no, all the _moments_–he has with and of John. Nothing about John was merely data–every second spent with him was special to Sherlock. He walked further into the room, grazing the bookshelves as he walked past. He picked up a stray book and opened it to the first page. 

He smiled slightly. It was during the events of their first case together, A Study in Pink as John called it. Sherlock remembers the overwhelming sense of desire when he and John ran across London and ended up at 221b, laughing in the hallway. He wanted to be with John, the only one who didn’t immediately tell him to fuck off when he deduced him, and in fact, moved in with Sherlock and_ stayed_. He remembered the smell of their sweat from running, the sound of John’s laughter, his look of disbelief when he opened the door to Angelo holding his cane. He remembered everything from that day.

He closed the book and picked up a film, putting it in and staring at the screen. 

It was nothing particularly memorable, but to Sherlock, everything was memorable when it came to John. Sherlock was leaning on John’s shoulder as they watched an episode of Doctor Who, John mindlessly carding his hands through Sherlock’s hair. It was the first time Sherlock ever truly felt content with domesticity. There, with John, Sherlock didn’t _need _the rush of a case, or the numbness of a drug. All he needed was John.

–

“Sherlock?”

“Sherlock, are you there, love?”

Sherlock opened his eyes, staring up at the marvelous face of John. “There you are. I was wondering where you went.”

Sherlock got up, kissing John lightly on the forehead. “I didn’t go anywhere.”

John smiled as he pulled Sherlock down for another kiss. “You always go somewhere, when you have that look on your face.”

“What look?”

“You know.”

Sherlock smiled, saying nothing as he walked to the kitchen to boil a kettle.

And content he was.


End file.
